


Mary Poppins, LLC (Or, 5 + 1, featuring the world's most motivated and lethal nannies)

by frostian



Series: Road to Ithaca [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, AU, Angst and Humor, By Moffat & Co., Canonical Character Death, Jossed, M/M, POV Outsider, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2018-02-12 19:43:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2122341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostian/pseuds/frostian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Plague?” Wes’ voice was thin with shock. “He can’t be serious…”</p><p>“Not a joke,” Stefan answered flatly. “It still exists and people still die from it.”</p><p>The two men looked at each other. Then, they scrambled out of the rented bedsit two doors down from 221 just in time to catch Watson bolting out the front door. Stefan and Wes stared at Watson who glared at them.</p><p>“Well?” he barked. “Do you have a car?!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Filling Frankenstein's Fridge

If one were to look at a file with the neatly typed ‘Malmgren, Stefan’ on the tab, the person would imagine a tall, fair Swede with a slim smile and even slimmer figure.

They wouldn’t imagine a Nigerian-born amateur boxer who barely scraped 1.7 meters with boots on. And whose smile was charmingly crooked thanks to the BACRIM cartel trying their bloody best to pry information from him by using an adjustable wrench on his teeth.

The Home Office, grateful for their agent’s ability to keep his mouth shut, wrench not withstanding, invested in a year’s worth of medical procedures to make Stefan’s face once again palatable for the general masses.

Stefan bore the pain with equanimity of someone who’d seen worse. And the last thing the operative wanted was to possess a distinctive feature. It was much simpler to be a black man in a bland service uniform. People tended to chalk him as a harmless worker bee that way, and the shapeless sacks hid his bulk rather nicely.

So, he remained quiet as he slogged through one grueling corrective surgery after another. And made sure to compliment the medical staff who honestly tried their best, especially after learning why he needed their services. Stefan also kept his peace when his immediate superior told him that he was going on light duty before being sent out on assignment.

After all, extensive torture was not something any operative could shrug off easily. 

In fact, things definitely looked up when he was whisked into a plush car and faced one of the prettiest women in recent memory.

“Here are the files you need,” she said succinctly.

Better and better: a pretty woman who wasted no time. Stefan flipped through the pages, memorizing the necessary details as he read the extensive dossier.

“Do I get to know who this man’s brother is?”

The brunette smiled and shook her head. “Then he wouldn’t be important anymore. He’d be compromised, instead.”

Stefan sighed. The courier had a point. “So, where’s the asset?”

“Currently being detained by the Met.”

“Why?”

“They think he’s the Orchard Killer.”

“Is he?” Stefan grated out. The operative had compromised everything, including his dubious moral code, for his country. However, protecting a child-raping serial killer was a line even he wasn’t ready to cross, at least willingly.

“Of course not. He told the Met who it might be. They didn’t take it well, I’m afraid.”

“There’s more, isn’t there?”

The brunette hesitated before answering, “Sherlock Holmes is a drug addict.”

“Bloody fuck,” Stefan sighed. “Is he on it now?”

“No, he went through his third clinical rehabilitation just last month. As far as we know he’s clean.”

“But he cycles, right?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Which is why we must be extra vigilant. However, we do believe Mr. Holmes has found a working substitute for his drugs: solving crimes.”

“I don’t understand… he wants to be a police officer?”

“Hardly, he wants to help the police but on his own terms.”

“That’s insane.”

“Nevertheless, he has found a willing cohort within the Met who listens to him. A Detective Sergeant Gregory Lestrade. The man is of average intellect, but is tenacious in the extreme. He is also very well liked by his peers, so we believe there is a chance Mr. Holmes’ current obsession will work to our advantage.”

Stefan didn’t comment on the royal ‘we’ or ‘our advantage’. Quotes like that didn’t bode well for the subject of the conversation.

“Is there anything else I need to know?”

“You will be working with another operative at all times. And there will be a third assigned to monitoring Sherlock Holmes’ electronic devices.” She snapped the folders shut with businesslike speed. “And there is another three-person team, so you will be working twelve hour shifts.”

Stefan’s stomach fell a solid mile into hell. He had initially thought this Holmes nutter was some bastard of a high-ranking member in the Home Office. But, with this level of round-the-clock surveillance, it was obvious Sherlock Holmes was considered nothing less than a top-tiered _member_ of the Home Office.

“Who is he, really?” Stefan asked flatly.

The woman paused to consider his demeanor. “Sherlock Holmes is a brilliant man, that everyone agrees. How he is brilliant is a matter of debate. But what we know is the following. His pattern recognition is on par with some of the best at MI5 and MI6. And is paired with a masterful understanding of biological sciences and forensic medicine.”

Stefan added it all up and concluded, “He really can solve crime.”

“Any crime, for anyone, anywhere. So, you can imagine there are a great number of powerful people interested in his welfare. And also equal number of people in the criminal class who would like nothing better than to see him dead before sunset.”

“And the Orchard Killer?”

“By now Mr. Holmes has probably convinced DS Lestrade that he is, in fact, not the serial killer. And if the detective is as competent as Sherlock Holmes believes, they will have an arrest before eight in the evening.

“You will read in tomorrow’s papers who _is_ the Orchard Killer.”

Stefan checked the gun and the additional clips. “So, I guess I’m on nanny duty after all.”

She smiled. “Mr. Malmgren, when you’re with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. Even in London.”

“Still a nanny,” Stefan shot back in a singsong voice, and got a genuine laughter for his troubles.

Stefan’s good humour doubled the next morning as he read the triumphant headlines on how the Met had finally caught the Orchard Killer. Under the huge heading was a picture of DS Lestrade, taken at the scene of arrest, looking grim and determined in spite of his youthful features. 

“I bet he’s going to be DI the next time we read about him,” Sabrina Mallory said with a smile. “Not bad on the eyes either.”

Stefan snorted at Mallory’s salacious tone. “Not going to take that bet,” he said as he continued reading.

“Mr. Holmes has finally collapsed,” Joe Vines announced. “The lad’s not had an ounce of sleep in the last four days. That has got to be a new personal record!”

Stefan eyes the fleapit of a building across the street. “Why is he living here? Doesn’t he have money or a trust fund? A legacy? Something? Barclays Card?”

“All tied up,” Mallory answered, shaking her head. “He remains sober for a year to eighteen months, then goes right back to cocaine. Been doing that so often, his mother shut down every access he has to the family money.”

“Let’s hope he stays clean this time,” Stefan said softly. “He’s nothing but skin and bones as is.”

“Two stones underweight; his refrigerator has three bacterial studies, a severed foot, and two human kidneys in a jar. But nothing edible, at least to someone who’s not Dr. Lecter.”

“I think we’ll do some food shopping for the poor bastard,” Stefan said.

Mallory gaped at him. “We’re here to make sure he stays alive! Not play Jeeves!”

“And when he finally passes out from malnutrition in the middle of London traffic? What then? Besides, we’re going to buy the easy stuff; you know, take the top off and put it in a microwave. Hell, get some takeaways.”

“He likes Chinese, especially those dumplings,” Vines said conversationally. “Also, curry and butter chicken.”

Mallory glared at them. “You’re not making me do the shopping because I’m a woman.”

“We’ll get deliveries,” Stefan offered, sensing her resistance crumbling.

Within the hour Stefan and Mallory watched as Vines stuffed takeaways into Frankenstein’s Fridge before leaving through the bathroom window. Sherlock Holmes, exhausted to the bone, slept through the reverse burglary until evening. They watched the monitor as he came out of the shower, wearing only a ratty towel around his hips.

“How is he mobile?” Vines whispered. 

They could see the clear line of the spine shifting under the parchment-thin skin. Also, where there would be an Adonis Belt on a healthy male, there was nothing but hollows because of the severe lack of weight.

“I don’t understand how the clinic discharged him in that condition,” Mallory said, leaning closer to the screens. “He looks like he needs a transfusion and a week’s worth of glucose drips.”

They watched the target open the fridge, then grab a takeaway box and plow through it for nearly a minute before stopping. Stefan laughed softly as a comical look of shock crossed Holmes’ face before the man whirled around to check the fridge’s contents.

Mallory joined him when Holmes popped open every box and a bag filled with fruit. There was also a tin of Earl Grey sitting primly where the butter would be stored. Stefan had no idea why Vines insisted on that, but it was better to humour him than get into a verbal argument with someone whose three uncles were Jesuit-trained priests.

“This is brilliant,” Vines snorted as Sherlock turned to face the windows again.

The ex-addict narrowed his eyes as he studied the outside vista.

“He can’t see us, right?” Stefan asked. 

“No, he can’t,” Mallory answered.

In spite of the reassurance, Stefan could feel Sherlock peer into his skull.

“That’s seriously unnerving,” Vines whispered, as if Holmes could suddenly hear him.

After a solid minute Sherlock Holmes began eating again, as if all was right with his world.

“Do you think we could get reimbursed for the food?” Stefan asked conversationally.

“I have no idea, but I wouldn’t bet on it,” Vines answered sarcastically.

To Stefan’ shock, they were repaid for the food even before they handed in the receipts. An occurrence that was even more unnerving than Sherlock’s inhuman gaze.


	2. How Not to Destroy Evidence

“Are they still at it?” Stefan wearily asked as he sat down. 

“Not answering anything until you give me my breakfast,” Jason Leeds grumped from his ergonomic chair whose goals were stumped since it was soldered onto the van’s floor. 

Stefan left the cushy Holmes job only after a week and had two assignments, both of which were considered successes, minor explosions notwithstanding. Then, a six-month whirlwind of industrial espionage, which ended up with three British soldiers kidnapped while on patrol.

Stefan was proud he led the recovery team that managed to successfully free the hostages, but as his luck would have it, Stefan was shot in the hip. 

After two months of painful rehab, the mysterious brunette once again approached him with the nanny position. He was flattered that the powers-that-be thought him good enough for it and accepted the assignment readily.

To his shock and relief, Sherlock Holmes had moved into a respectable flat in Central London, and of all things found a flatmate who couldn’t be scared off so easily.

In fact, Dr. John Hamish Watson turned out to be a man of extraordinary character hidden under bland clothes and mild countenance. And bless him, the former soldier made a tremendous effort in ensuring that Sherlock Holmes had at least ingested some food during the day.

Unfortunately, that was what the row was about. Sherlock Holmes had cleaned out the fridge of everything and anything edible in order to store bits of corpses found in a derelict bilge. Stefan knew that wouldn’t go down well with the flatmate but had no idea how pissed off Dr. Watson would get when he started to make dinner only to discover they hadn’t a single pat of butter in the flat.

The ensuing argument could easily trump the ones Stefan had with his parents when he was fourteen and angry with just about everything in the world. Dr. Watson ended up storming out of 221b and Holmes making his escape to Barts where he’d stayed overnight doing only God knows what.

Eventually, food and drink returned to the refrigerator, but the mood in the flat stayed frosty. This détente lasted for six days until Dr. Watson did the unthinkable. He successfully pulled a prank on Holmes by rubbing some dark blue face paint on the eyepiece of Holmes’ microscope.

Stefan stared agape at the monitors while the World’s Only Consulting Detective went about his entire morning routine looking like someone had punched him in the eye. Jason and Marcus, on the other hand, laughed uproariously, making sure they recorded everything, even making snapshots of Holmes’ face and sending it off to their immediate superior.

It wasn’t until well into the afternoon that Holmes got wind of the prank. But, as aggravated as he was, the coolness between the two men finally thawed. So, instead of aggressive civil behaviour, there was now full prank war devolving in 221b. In the three days that followed the two managed to embroil Mrs. Hudson, their neighbours along with their dog, Gladstone. Even the poor waitstaff at Speedy’s was not spared.

Emergency Services were called in twice; DI Lestrade no less than three different occasions. Stefan seriously considered drugging the two idiots until whatever was in their system ran its course.

“They should shag,” Jason said, as if he were Buddha announcing world-unifying wisdom to the world.

Stefan snorted. “Yeah, could you see Sherlock Holmes having sex? His brain would short circuit or his partner would chin him because the bastard wouldn’t stop talking.”

Jason barked out a laugh. “Yeah, but look at all that sexual tension. Even I’m feeling uncomfortable and I’m just watching them.”

“It’s better than tele,” Stefan admitted. “But like any good tele programme, the moment the two leads get together, the show goes to shite.”

“That’s true,” Jason grudgingly admitted. “And I hate to see Holmes at it again.”

Stefan looked at his partner. “You’ve done this before?”

“Years ago. It was a Monday so I got shot. No big surprise. But the bullet bounced inside the ribcage. Made a hell of a mess. After everything was stitched up and healed, I had to be a nanny to prove that I could still do the work.

“Ended up on that lunatic’s protective detail while he was still on cocaine and whatever the hell was on sale for the day. Even by our measure, it was hard and ugly work. The nutter would be sprouting off all these incredible facts while shooting up. And his dealers weren’t happy about it either. I had to discourage more than a few from following the kid home and beating him to death."

“Maybe you’re right," Stefan admitted reluctantly. "If anyone could fall in love with Holmes and keep him – it would be Doctor Watson.”

Jason looked at the monitor more closely. “There he is. What the bloody fuck is he carrying?”

The internet-famous detective was currently dragging an entire tree complete with its planter pot, down Baker Street, all the while muttering to himself. 

“Christmas came early to Baker Street,” Jason deadpanned.

“Maybe he’s got a tree chipper at the flat and wants to test it,” Stefan added.

Jason looked at him, perplexed. “What’s a tree chipper?”

“One of those things you feed fallen tree branches and actual trees to make woodchips?”

Jason shook his head. “Never heard of it.”

“Americans use them quite a bit, especially if they want to cover up a crime.”

“By feeding the evidence to a grinder?”

“And body,” Stefan added. “Gruesome, really. And unlike what you see on the tele, a human body is liable to jam the damn machine. So you get half a body sticking out of the mouth and the other half sprayed all over the place like candy sprinkles.”

“That’s disgusting, not to mention time consuming."

“Leave it to the Americans,” Stefan said. He decided never to confess that he’d actually tried that once. And then was forced to rid of the body, the broken tree chipper since it had evidence smeared all over it, and the bloody human mulch. 

Lye in drums might be classic but it was a classic for a good reason.

Jason snickered. “Maybe he snapped and plans to murder Watson.”

Stefan gave a bark of laughter then sobered immediately. The air in the room turned tense before Jason said:

“I’m calling in Marcus. We need to know where Watson is.”

Watson, as it turned out, was on his way home.

“Delay him by any means possible,” Stefan barked at his phone, ignoring Marcus' frantic questions. “We need to secure Holmes.”

Turned out Holmes had purchased the acacia tree because his friend was allergic to it. Not life threatening, of course, but enough to send him in search of antihistamine.

“But the camel spiders didn’t work!” Sherlock protested as Jason hauled the tree down the stairs and out of 221.

Stefan leveled a dark gaze at the detective but heroically refrained from saying anything.

“I honestly thought having those things crawl out of his brogues would do the trick,” Sherlock continued to rant. “But all he did was laugh and coo at the monstrosities. Then he made me return them and get a refund because they were so expensive.”

Stefan decided he needed to leave before the desire to punch the man overwhelmed him.

Watson was standing at the entrance, wide eyed but with a smile on his face. “Ahh, I see.”

Stefan wagged a cautionary finger, which Watson understood well enough. 

As the agent left he could hear Watson’s cheerful, “So, let’s have a truce before the rest of the British Intelligence community decides to stick their noses in.”

“Dinner?”

“Wherever you want, Sherlock. And my treat.”

Stefan couldn’t help but smile as he returned to the van and watch the two men exit Baker Street.

“I still think sex would solve their problems,” Jason grumbled as he tried to shove the tree to the least cluttered corner of the van.

“You, sir, are an incurable romantic.”

Marcus joined them just in time to catch the two laughing uncontrollably, and wondered if he was being punished, as it was clear as day that his team was composed of lunatics.


	3. Getting One's Priorities Straight

“What is he doing?” Stefan furiously whispered to his team.

“Sir, he has engaged in a conversation with Moriarty,” August answered hesitantly. “Dr. Watson is still a viable target. There are snipers trained on him, and his vest is live. It is not on a timer but a trigger.”

Stefan swore. It was an impossible scenario: Neutralize the shooters and the vest goes off. Neutralize Moriarty in order to rescue Watson and the bullets will fly. Stefan also suspected Moriarty came with even more fail-safes, since he was supposedly a genius of Sherlock Holmes’ caliber.

“Stand down,” Stefan finally said.

“Sir, Moriarty is leaving,” August informed him, his voice thick with relief. Then, “Piss that, he’s back.”

Stefan wondered if Holmes would shoot the bastard. Then his men would get a chance to take out the shooters. Of course, Dr. Watson would be a dead man, but Stefan had given up on the idea of rescuing the hostage. It was a lose-lose scenario, so the only option he had left was to do his job: protect the asset.

But Stefan also knew that should Dr. Watson not survive tonight, Sherlock Holmes would revert back to his old ways with a vengeance. And Stefan would never have another chance to babysit the bastard because he’d be long dead from a deliberate overdose within the week of Dr. Watson’s funeral.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

“Sir, Moriarty is gone, and I think for good. He was talking on the phone,” August said. “Oh thank God, Holmes got the bomb off of Watson.”

“Get the shooters, now, now,” Stefan barked, not bothering to whisper any longer. His temper had been frayed for days, following Holmes and his friend all over London, watching them succeed and fail in stopping the bombings.

It had taken an entire day to finish gathering what remained of the eleven people who’d died in the ‘gas explosion’. And the biggest bit was a right foot still encased in walking boots. Just seeing that reminded Stefan of all the aftermaths he’d witnessed of bombs and IEDs.

That was enough to drive Stefan to seriously consider breaking protocol and killing Moriarty himself. To hell with what the Home Office wanted. To hell with Holmes and his fucking puzzles. The bastard had little care for Moriarty’s victims; at least until the mad tosser kidnapped Watson and stuck the poor man into a vest wired with enough explosives to bring down half a block.

Stefan’ temper simmered down quickly while he observed Holmes flutter about Watson’s exhausted form, watching the doctor tried to gather his wits. The emergency personnel scoured over the area while the bomb experts carted away the explosives.

“Moriarty, did he hurt you?” Holmes asked weakly.

Watson peered up at him over the bottle of water he’d been draining. “Some punches and bruises, but that was because his men were a bit enthusiastic in getting me to behave.”

Sherlock pursed his lips as his pallor worsened. Suddenly, Stefan realized what the man was trying to ask. 

Watson finally caught on. “Oh, no, the bastard wanted me scared, and basically did this whole song and dance with the vest, but nothing else. I was too dull, too ordinary to excite someone like him.”

Stefan closed his eyes and sighed in relief. He was too well versed in methods of torture, and rape was on the top of the list for a reason.

“I apologize, but the question needed to be asked,” Sherlock said.

“I understand. God knows I’ve asked that question once or twice,” Watson answered.

Sherlock Holmes saw DI Lestrade arrive and rushed towards him, arms wildly flailing to reveal his displeasure.

Watson smiled tiredly and finished his bottle. He then looked at Stefan who was in a constable outfit. “So, we meet again.”

Stefan gave a nod. “Here we are.”

“Thank you,” Watson said.

Stefan looked at him in confusion. “For what?”

“For taking care of him,” Watson answered, throwing a glance at Holmes who was now embroiled in an argument with what seemed like half the Met.

“It wasn’t me,” Stefan said.

“Give me some credit, I can guess what your assignment is,” Watson said. “And it doesn’t involve me getting out alive if Sherlock’s life hangs in the balance.”

Stefan looked at Watson in shock. The doctor, on the other hand, remained calm.

“We both know Sherlock doesn’t have a drop of self preservation. Which is why you and your people are here.

“If this happens again, then … well, then just do your job. No matter what happens to me. All right?”

Stefan gave a small nod and feigned an excuse so he could walk away and gather his thoughts. Mercifully, by the time he’d returned Dr. Watson and Sherlock Holmes were whisked away, hopefully to a safer location than 221b.


	4. It's Christmas!

Stefan was bored. He couldn’t believe he was back in London after a single assignment that lasted only seven weeks.

“I can’t believe it,” he groused to Wes Birthistle who was listening to the taps on Holmes’ phones.

“What was it again?” Wes asked around a steamed pork bun. “Mumps?”

“Nope,” Stefan answered. “Measles.”

Wes slowly rotated the chair to look at Stefan. “Measles? Why are you benched, then? You got shots, right?”

“A new strain: they say it’s resistant to whatever vaccinations are available,” Stefan answered drily.

“Which shite-heeled bastard brewed up that one?”

Stefan shrugged. “Who knows? The doctors say this strain might not be manmade.”

“And you’re sitting here breathing on me because?”

Stefan chuckled. “They say I don’t have it, but I’m grounded for six weeks.”

“Why six?”

“Either by then I’m all right or I’ll be dead.”

“Cheers!” Wes said, raising a bottle of root beer as a toast. “Maybe we could be quarantined together. I had to once with this fucking tit. Thought he was Mountbatten or something. God, I hated the prick.”

Stefan sighed. He was pissed, even if he was back to nannying duties with Holmes and Watson. He just hated waiting, especially since physically he was fine. 

Probably fine. 

Stefan quickly checked the palms of his hands. Nothing. So, all good then.

“Turn it live, will you?” Stefan asked, sitting on the other stool. “Might as well figure out what is happening with Dr. Not Gay and Insulting Detective Posh Berk.”

“Holmes is at Barts,” Wes said. “Studying a body. Hopefully it’s a corpse. With that lunatic you’d never know.”

Stefan chuckled. He listened as Watson sadly ended the call and the latest relationship with a Professor Julia Nelson.

“Poor bastard,” Stefan said. “Was she nice?”

“Yeah, she was,” Wes answered. “Could tolerate Holmes well enough, which was definitely a plus on her board.”

“But?”

“I think that was what scared Holmes so much and made him turn into such a magnificent cockblocker.”

“What do you mean?”

“Imagine Watson actually meeting up with a woman who could handle Sherlock Holmes. You think he could actually share Dr. Watson for any length of time? Yeah, a pull here and there to slacken the thirst: that Holmes could understand, even accept.”

“But he’s the jealous type?”

“More than that,” Wes said. “Look, I had a girlfriend who had this incredibly strong relationship with her brother. Now, I think he was probably autistic on some level but back then, everyone thought he was just this weird ankle biter who followed his big sister around. The sad truth was she was his whole life. Their parents completely ignored him, and the boy couldn’t make a friend to save his life.”

Stefan felt something heavy shift inside his belly, and it didn’t feel good. “I see.”

“The good doctor is his only friend, and probably the only human being in Holmes’ adult life who actually accepted him for what he was. And who appreciates his talents. Holmes isn’t going to willingly let that go, at least not without a fight.”

Stefan frowned. “That doesn’t sound good for Watson. What if Holmes snaps? Then we’ve got murder and cleanup in our hands.”

Wes shrugged. “I guess that’s why we’re here.”

Stefan hated that idea. He liked Doctor Watson, and over time the ex-soldier’s welfare became just as important as Holmes’. 

“There’s a text coming in.”

Stefan looked at the screen and blinked as he read what was written.

> Allergic reaction or The Plague! It’s Christmas!

“Plague?” Wes’ voice was thin with shock. “He can’t be serious…” 

“Not a joke,” Stefan answered flatly. “It still exists and people still die from it.”

The two men looked at each other. Then, they scrambled out of the rented bedsit two doors down from 221 just in time to catch Watson bolting out the front door. Stefan and Wes stared at Watson who glared at them.

“Well?” he barked. “Do you have a car?!”

Stefan pointed at a sedan peeling down the street. “That’s ours.”

“We need to get to Barts in ten minutes!” Watson yelled as they scrambled into the car. “I’m going to kill the skinny git!”

McIntyre, the designated driver, stared as Watson took the passenger seat. “Um … hello?”

“Pleasantries later. Barts now!”

The situation was too dire for Stefan to properly enjoy Watson bullying McIntyre throughout the ride, but later on, when everything quieted, the diseased (but not Plagued, thank God) flesh binned, and Sherlock properly chastised by both Dr. Watson and Dr. Hooper, Stefan would smile as he recollected meeting Captain Watson.

The next day, Stefan found Dr. Watson waiting for him at the front stoop of the bedsit with a carrier of good coffee and a book on modern diseases, with some of the pages marked as Sherlock’s perennial favorites.

“Best to learn what is and isn’t life-threatening and all that,” he explained in his usual pleasant, soft tone.

“Thanks,” Stefan said as he took the gifts and watched the doctor march down the street and back into 221. The reading was both disturbing and edifying in equal measure.

And one section actually helped Stefan later identify what was thought to be leprosy but was actually another type of skin diseases. Of course, he was still grounded for six weeks but felt much better knowing what he was actually exposed to.


	5. Meeting the Jedi

“What in bloody hell are they doing?” Stefan wondered out loud as he watched Dr. Watson and Sherlock Holmes pull out the janitorial gear from the hired car.

“I have no idea,” Mallory answered gleefully. “But this is going to be fantastic!”

“So, this is another Holmes?” Patel asked in a subdued and rather horrified tone even as he leaned forward to watch the monitor. “There are two of them?”

Mallory nodded. “Yes, the older brother, and that Edwardian monstrosity is actually his house.”

“And his fancy dress party!” Stefan said to no one in particular. “Which means … they’re going as … cleaners? Janitorial services?”

“Have to be,” Mallory said, cackling loudly as Watson donned on the janitor’s cap and made sure his boots were laced tight. Holmes, on the other hand, pulled out three sticks of gum and began enthusiastically chewing them.

The two men straightened themselves out after shifting the brooms, mops, and other cleaning paraphernalia on the dinted janitor’s trolley.

“They can’t be serious…” Stefan whispered as he watched the nutters stroll up the grand driveway, dragging the trolley behind them.

The guards at the front door studied Holmes and Watson as if they were particularly invasive parasitic species from the Amazon. However, once they read the invitation, they had no choice but to step aside.

Mallory laughed uncontrollably as other partygoers scattered to make way for the janitors who stomped into the charity fete like they paid 5000 pounds per plate.

“I need to see what’s happening inside,” Patel whispered reverently. “Because I think I might just find God if I do.”

Stefan was just as tempted. After all, he had Home Office’s carte blanche order to ensure Holmes’ safety. And he couldn’t very well do the job from inside a van, could he?

Really, it was a given that they quietly slipped through the back entrance, one designated for protective detail. And Stefan knew he caught more than one pitying glance from his brethren when he told them who his assignment was.

Stefan stayed in the background, looking like an overpaid, testosterone-poisoned bastard by puffing up his chest and scowling. Both Patel and Mallory were wending about, resembling harried assistants. 

It didn’t take long for any of them to find Holmes and Watson. 

After all, a Jedi Master, complete with a lightsaber dangling from his belt, was addressing the two men in what could only be described as cold fury.

“That’s the brother,” Mallory informed them. “He is what we’d call irreplaceable asset.”

Stefan guessed the Jedi was Ewan McGregor’s version since the older Holmes had the pump handle in the back of his skull. It wagged playfully like a Corgi’s tail as the man shook his head violently, showing his disappointment in his brother’s and Watson’s life choices.

Stefan continued to stare unabashedly as the Jedi turned heel and left, his cloak fluttering behind him in an appropriately Sherlockian fashion.

However, if he wanted his brother and friend chastised, the Jedi had failed and failed miserably. The two men were furiously giggling, looking at the posh people swarming about, while drinking outrageously expensive champagne and freely munching on the canapés. When one perky blonde tried to approach them, Sherlock brandished a cleaning bottle at her. That and the slight baring of his teeth was enough to drive the woman away. Stefan noted that Watson was completely unaware of this entire transaction.

Right then Stefan admitted that the downtime spent protecting these two nutters was fantastic. They made London so much more exciting than visiting museums and dodging tourists. In fact, Stefan considered the downtime to be a sort-of vacation, and he knew others also considered it as such. Which went a long way in explaining how he kept being teamed up with familiar faces whenever he got on the Holmes Express.


	6. Plus One, Breaking Protocol

Stefan did as he was told. Even if it hurt, actually physically hurt, to watch Dr. Watson dodge the media hyenas who hounded his every step. Who threw all sorts of outrageous questions at him even as Watson stoically ignored them all. And the questions only got worse when he wrote a single sentence in his blog: “I believe in Sherlock Holmes.”

This form of government-sanctioned torture continued until the press got wind of another delicious scandal and flitted away to a more exciting bloodletting.

Stefan did as he was told and did not interfere when Dr. Watson was fired from his job: not from incompetence but from the overwhelming media scrutiny. However, he was glad to see Dr. Sawyer quit the very next day, and the two managed to find work together in another clinic, thanks to her contacts.

Stefan did not interfere as Watson cried himself to sleep every night. The man didn’t take refuge in anything, either. He stayed away from alcohol, and he certainly didn’t take any of the prescribed medications given for his chronic insomnia or the reoccurring pain that began flaring up on his wounded shoulder. 

Stefan did not interfere as he watched Watson help Mrs. Hudson up the front steps because her bad hip worsened thanks to a careless photographer elbowing her aside on the icy stoop to 221, then fleeing when she fell and broke her hip. 

He continued to follow orders of non-interference when Watson was dragged to the New Scotland Yard for the nth time, to what he suspected was yet another whipping session, though Stefan hoped that with the new Chief Superintendent some dose of humanity would reveal itself. 

So, hoping in spite of all he’d witnessed, Stefan decided to eavesdrop, as he was desperate to find out what was being revealed in that sterile office.

“You have to admit; this is sexier…”

Moriarty’s voice was thready and yet menacing as he continued to torment Sherlock Holmes. Stefan had to lean against the steering wheel as the recording played on and on.

“How did you get this?” Watson asked weakly.

“An anonymous person mailed it to Jonathan Henderson at _The Guardian_. He gave us a copy but kept the original,” Lestrade answered somberly.

“Was there anything else?” he asked.

“A letter,” DCI Hailey answered. “Again, we only have a copy but it says that the sender was a victim of Moriarty, and was forced to do illegal things because the bastard had his daughter. But the parent or parents now believe Moriarty is dead and … well, so is their daughter, as it turns out: has been for some time.”

“Jesus Christ,” Watson hissed out. “That bastard … that fucking animal…”

“They managed to record the conversation and held onto it until they thought it was safe enough to be made public.”

“But where is Moriarty’s body if he blew off his head on the roof?” Watson asked.

“There was blood, and other forensic evidence that led us to believe someone died on that roof,” Lestrade answered. “But the body was gone. We think Moriarty’s men got there first and took him.”

“So, so … Sherlock died for us, then?” John asked. “He jumped for us?”

“Yeah, mate, he did. The brilliant fucker killed himself so we could live," Lestrade answered, his voice thick with tears.

“And the shooters?”

“The investigation is no longer in our purview," DCI Hailey answered.

“What?”

“I’m afraid after the debacle with all this, Home Office believed it prudent for MI5 to handle it.”

Stefan recognized the voice belonging to the new commissioner, Ronald McInnis. The one that was hired after Sherlock Holmes’ name was cleared of any wrongdoing by a thorough investigation by the Yard and Interpol.

“Okay, okay … then,” Watson said. “I want a copy.”

Stefan heard some shuffling and knew Lestrade had already made one for his friend.

“What now?” John asked.

“Henderson will be publishing his editorial tonight. He will have a copy of the tape up on the website.”

“I’m not going to make a statement,” John said. “I’ll write something on the blog, but I won’t stand up next to any of you in front of the media. I want nothing to do with any of you.”

“Doctor, I wish … I wish you’d reconsider…” DCI Hailey protested faintly.

“Stop right there,” Watson said harshly. “I’m scheduled to stay in Sussex for family business. It’s not something I can put off so don’t bother.”

There was harsh scraping and Stefan heard Watson’s soldierly gait before Donovan spoke:

“Doctor Watson.”

Stefan closed his eyes. “Bloody fuck.”

“I’m sorry we failed.”

There was only heavy, unbending silence.

“We forgot something,” Donovan plowed on bravely. “We forgot that in spite of Holmes’ brilliance … that he was a Londoner. And that meant we were supposed to protect him like any other citizen. Instead, we let him be victimized.”

There was no response, only that hellish silence before Stefan heard Watson’s steady gait resume.

“That could’ve gone better,” the DCI said, trying for joviality and failing.

“Is the Holmes family still planning the slander lawsuit?” Donovan asked.

“Yes,” Chief Superintendent’s Scottish burr heavy yet soft. “They’ve come down like death on the media. All of them, including Riley’s rag, are writing retractions. That’s why _The Guardian_ wants this out as fast as possible. So, they can say they were the first to see the wrong they’ve committed.”

“Well, Sherlock’s still dead. Moriarty’ is still missing though hopefully dead. And those three fuckers who pushed Sherlock off the roof are still free.”

Lestrade’s acrimonious statement did nothing to soothe the strain in the room.

“Sir, we have to make a statement,” DCI Hailey admitted. 

“Everyone knows Sherlock Holmes was cleared of any wrongdoing by us two months ago,” McInnis said tiredly. “Thank God we did that at least.”

Stefan could almost see Lestrade’s face go purple with rage as the people in the room discuss how best to brace for what would be one hell of a shitstorm ahead.

Obviously, so could the Chief. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off, Lestrade,” he suggested. “This mess has taken a lot out of everyone, but I can’t even begin to imagine what you’ve been through.”

“Thank you,” Lestrade manages to ground out before leaving the conference room.

Stefan turned off the virus he’d installed in Lestrade’s phone and checked the tracker on Watson’s. It was not moving, which alarmed Stefan. Before he could start the cab, the reinstated DI came through the front doors. His face was a patchwork of fury and grief.

Stefan suspected Lestrade would stop at the nearest pub and get blasted.

What Stefan didn’t anticipate was Watson appearing out of nowhere and intercepting Lestrade. The DI looked as startled as Stefan felt and the two men fell into a quiet conversation that Stefan couldn’t hear from his cab. He pulled his beret lower on his face when they crossed the street in front of him, and watched the two men walk away at a brisk pace while in a deep conversation.

Stefan understood his orders. He was to ensure that his superiors were made aware of anything Watson knew. To ensure that ‘we could use the information to our best advantage.’

Stefan started the cab and followed them at a discreet distance, but far enough not to read lips. That way he could inform his superior that the two men met and went out for a pint. 

So, it wasn’t exactly following protocol. But he’d followed them all, hadn’t he? And look where it landed everyone. Sherlock Holmes in a fucking grave. Dr. Watson slowly dying of poisonous grief. DI Lestrade who had been demoted and dragged through the muck. Donovan who refused to allow herself to enjoy anything and spent her free evenings scouring the internet for a hint of Moriarty. Even Anderson, who loathed Sherlock, was now in the middle of a hellish divorce because he’d neglected his family in favour of his work at the Met.

Stefan didn’t understand why Watson was still such a subject of such scrutiny by his superiors, especially now that Holmes was dead, but he had inkling that the man was the key. To what, the operative hadn’t a fucking clue. But whatever it was – Stefan planned to be there when it happened.

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always imagined the protective detail around Sherlock and later Dr. Watson had to be the most motivated group of human beings in all of London if not Great Britain. They had to be Olympians with deadly aim, and never got a sick day because until Moriarty, the Baker Street Duo lived in relative safety despite the numerous criminals they end up clashing with.
> 
> So, I decided to use their POV, which was fantastic because they were outsiders, to shine light on the humorous and equally harrowing lifestyle that Sherlock and John chose.


End file.
